LOGINJulliette.
The training room smelled like dirty socks and sweat, and for a second, I considered whether I had actually been hired to be a therapist or a firefighter. There was Luka, stretching with a focused intensity that made me pause. He was young, yes but not timid. Not awkward. He moved with the kind of controlled confidence that made every shift of his muscles look purposeful, calculated, and annoyingly… magnetic. “Hold still,” I said, kneeling by his ankle, adjusting the tape. My fingers brushed his skin, but instead of a rookie’s nervous twitch, Luka just grinned at me, fully aware of the charge in the air. “Hard to hold still when the therapist keeps looking like she’s judging my form,” he said lightly, teasing. “I’m a professional athlete, you know. I expect a professional treatment.” I blinked, momentarily flustered not by the words, but by the easy way he teased, the confidence that radiated off him in waves. Invisible, Julliette. Invisible. I told myself, even as my pulse betrayed me. “Professional,” I repeated, lips curved. “Right. And I’m supposed to ignore the fact that you just winked while I was adjusting your ankle.” “I did not wink,” he said, tilting his head. “I give full credit to my natural charm. You’re welcome.” I rolled my eyes, trying to focus. “Natural charm? Luka, the only thing natural right now is the way your knee is about to implode if I don’t tape it properly.” He leaned back slightly, letting me work, his grin teasing, but steady. No hesitation. Bold. Eager. And it was infectious. I had to fight the smile that tugged at my lips. I didn’t notice Caleb’s standing at the doorway until he spoke. “Well, this is cozy.” His voice cut through the calmness of the arena, smooth, teasing, dangerous. He was shirtless, casual, leaning like he owned the room. The temperature in the air rose instantly. I glanced up, trying to keep my voice even. “Caleb. What are you doing here?” “I could ask the same of you,” he said, eyes flicking between me and Luka with that infuriatingly grin. “Late-night rehab sessions with the rookie, huh? Secret workouts? Or just some private time with the team doc?” I gave him a pointed look. “Nothing private about it. I’m working. Which, by the way, is why you shouldn’t—” “Oh, I’m not distracting anyone,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “I’m just… supervising. Very professional supervision.” Luka shifted, a smile tugging at his mouth. “She’s fine, Caleb. Totally in control. You’re the one causing… distractions.” Caleb’s grin widened, cocky and slow. “Touché, rookie. Touché.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, muttering under my breath. “I am not in a room with two men trying to out-charm each other at my expense.” Luka, however, was enjoying it. Bold, confident, teasing in a way that was almost… magnetic. “You sure you want to leave me in the middle of this?” he asked casually, shifting his weight on the bench. “You look like someone who enjoys tension. Makes your pulse beat faster. Adrenaline and all that.” I froze slightly, blinking. “I… do not—” “You totally do,” he said with a grin, eyes dancing with mischief. “Don’t even pretend. I see it. You’re calculating, and secretly enjoying the chaos you didn’t think you would get.” He was…right but I would rather die than admit that out loud. I exhaled slowly, trying to steady my pulse. He had no idea how right he was. And Caleb, standing a few feet away, didn’t help. His presence was like a low heat in the room that made my blood hum. “You’re both insufferable,” I muttered, though my voice lacked conviction. Caleb chuckled softly. “Insufferable is subjective. I prefer ‘enticing.’” Luka’s grin widened, playful. “I think I like ‘dangerous,’ personally. Keeps things interesting.” I shook my head, flustered despite myself. “Dangerous? You two are literally distracting me from keeping him—” I gestured at Luka’s ankle. “functional and not falling apart mid-season.” “Functional and falling apart,” Caleb said with a smirk. “Sounds like you’re describing yourself too, Doc.” I blinked. “Excuse me?” He leaned closer, casually, the air thick between us. “You’re trying to keep professional control, but your hands, your pulse… your little stutter when Luka makes a joke. That’s not professional. That’s intrigue. That’s wanting.” I swallowed hard. “I am not—” “Sure,” Caleb cut in, eyes glinting, “Keep telling yourself that, Doc. Meanwhile, we’re having fun with your…reactions.” Luka laughed softly, “Yeah, you’re betraying yourself. Admit it. You like chaos.” I groaned, exasperated. “I do not! I am strictly… clinical, observant, entirely professional.” Caleb and Luka exchanged a glance that made my stomach flip in ways I refused to acknowledge. The rookie smirked, clearly enjoying this game as much as that cocky bastard, Caleb beside him. And I? I was in the middle, pulse hammering, aware of every glance, every subtle movement, every teasing comment that hinted at something I wasn’t supposed to feel. I finished taping Luka’s ankle. Hands lingering slightly as Caleb’s presence pressed in, a proximity that made every nerve in my body burn. “You good?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, hands brushing his socked foot one last time. “Perfect,” he said, grin widening.“Though I can’t say the same about you.” I stared at him, incredulous. “Excuse me?” “You,” he said, gesturing vaguely at me with a playful tilt of the head. “Your pulse. Your stares. Your little sigh when Caleb stepped in. You enjoy this. You enjoy us.” I swallowed hard. “I am completely focused and you are just being delusional.” Caleb laughed, low and teasing, stepping closer. “Sure, Doc. Whatever helps you sleep tonight.” I exhaled, feeling trapped between two extremes. Luka’s youthful, confident pull and Caleb’s seasoned, cocky heat. Neither of them gave me an easy escape, and somehow, I didn’t want one either. Finally, Luka stretched to stand. “All set, Jullie. Thanks for.keeping me from killing my ankle.” “Anytime,” I said tightly, hands brushing briefly against his arm in a professional adjustment that felt anything but. Caleb leaned casually against the wall, smirk spreading. “You two make quite the pair. I would almost be jealous if I didn’t already know you were into me too” I groaned. “I hate both of you.” “You love both of us,” Caleb teased, voice low, playful. Luka chuckled. “I don’t know about love,Julie but I know I enjoy this chaos.” I shook my head, trying to steady my pulse. “You’re impossible.” They both laughed—different styles, but the effect was the same. My chest tight, pulse racing, heart betraying every careful plan I had for being professional and invisible. As I left the training room, both of them standing behind me, I realized one thing with chilling clarity. This wasn’t about work anymore. It was about desire, possession , and chaos. And I had no idea how I was going to survive it.Juliette’s POV:It started with a gentle kiss, his soft lips on mine, seeking permission, which I easily granted. My hands on his chest, he smelled like soap and shampoo.. who knew shampoo could smell so delicious? The kiss grew from gentle to deep, passionate and hungry. I wanted, no, I needed more.His hands moved to grip my ass, then suddenly without any warning, he picked me up without so much as breaking the kiss. I instinctively wrapped my legs around his waist, the coolness from the still locker on my back.My fingers tangled in his hair, trying to pull him closer, our tongues danced in a heated rhythm.“Juliette,” he moaned into the kiss. His voice, low, rough, hoarse and filled with desire.I could feel his heart pounding against my chest, mirroring my own frantic heartbeat. “We sho..uldn’t be d..doing thi..is” i manged to say without breaking away. “Fuck J.. I need you..” his words.. made me melt even more. I broke the kiss, trying to salvage what little restraint I had
JullietteThe following morning felt wrong, very wrong. It was neither loud, nor the least bit dramatic, it was just.. off. It felt as though the world itself had shifted half an inch whilst I wasn’t paying any attention. Dorian hadn’t said a single word to me since that one night. Not in the locker room, not even during treatment or even in passing, nothing. Just silence. He went back to moving like a shadow- silent, unapproachable and very unreadable, yet again. It was as though the whole bar scene had been nothing but a mere fever dream, birthed by intense exhaustion and maybe one too many bad cocktails. Except of course, it hadn’t been a dream. It had been real. I could still feel it, the specter of his big, strong hand on my smaller one. I could still feel the warmth of his soft lips whenever I closed my eyes. It made focusing on work insanely impossible.Every little sound had my nerves on edge. From the clang of sticks, the padding of footsteps all around me, to the low h
Julliette. Bars were basically a test of human endurance, and I was failing. Miserably. I had always suspected that humanity collectively agreed to invent them just to ruin nights for people like me—people who preferred walls to small talk, and strategy to slapdash flirting. And yet here I was, perched on a stool in a dim corner, nursing a drink that promised regret in liquid form and surveying the room with anything but ease. I had hoped foolishly, as it turns out that tonight I could be invisible. Just Julliette Mercer: quiet, competent, unobtrusive. No chaos, no brooding hockey players. I didn’t know I would meet him here. He was quiet—so quiet I thought at first he might be a figment of my exhaustion-addled brain. Shadowy in a way that made the dim lighting his personal stage, sitting at a table alone with a calm that could have been mistaken for smugness if I weren’t hyper-aware of every second of the day. Something about him made the bar feel smaller, heavier. My pulse spe
Julliette. The training room smelled like dirty socks and sweat, and for a second, I considered whether I had actually been hired to be a therapist or a firefighter. There was Luka, stretching with a focused intensity that made me pause. He was young, yes but not timid. Not awkward. He moved with the kind of controlled confidence that made every shift of his muscles look purposeful, calculated, and annoyingly… magnetic. “Hold still,” I said, kneeling by his ankle, adjusting the tape. My fingers brushed his skin, but instead of a rookie’s nervous twitch, Luka just grinned at me, fully aware of the charge in the air. “Hard to hold still when the therapist keeps looking like she’s judging my form,” he said lightly, teasing. “I’m a professional athlete, you know. I expect a professional treatment.” I blinked, momentarily flustered not by the words, but by the easy way he teased, the confidence that radiated off him in waves. Invisible, Julliette. Invisible. I told myself, even as
Julliette. The thing about rookies? They either shut up and blend in, or they try way too hard. Luka Simpson definitely wasn’t the first kind. I had clocked him since day one — younger than the others, still soft around the jaw despite the muscle, with this restless energy that made it feel like the air around him buzzed. Puppy energy, I told myself. Cute. Manageable. Like one of those golden retrievers who licks your face even when you’re trying to scold it. Except this puppy was six-foot-two, moved like a predator, and smiled like he had never once been told no. I was re-taping my kit bag when he plopped onto the bench across from me after practice, sweaty, grinning, and way too close. “Hey, Julli.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, dripping water down his neck like some kind of discount Gatorade commercial. “You got a minute?” “No,” I said automatically, eyes still on my bag. Rule number one: Do not encourage the puppies. They follow you home. He laughed. “Good one. I
Julliette. The first thing they drill into you at sports therapy seminars, besides “ice is your best friend” and “for the love of God, don’t flirt with players” is the golden rule: Hands stay professional. No lingering. No straying. No letting your touch wander into “oops, did that feel good?” territory. You’re the calm. The fixer. The invisible one. And invisible had worked just fine for me. Invisible had paid my bills. It had kept me sane. Until Caleb Archer swaggered into my training room like sin in hockey tees. He hopped up onto the table with the smooth ease of someone who had been performing for an audience since birth. Shirtless. Smirking. Every muscle flexing like he had practiced in a mirror. “Mercer,” he said, stretching his arm toward me like it was an offering. “Do me a favor?” His wrist was red, swollen. Actual injury. Which should’ve been my cue to zone out, tape him up, and send him on his merry, cocky way. Instead, I got caught staring at the faint trail of







